


assassins in the outfield

by verbanski



Series: sarah meet sara [6]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Chuck (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 22:20:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3706175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbanski/pseuds/verbanski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>of low key domestics and subtle baseball references</p>
            </blockquote>





	assassins in the outfield

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kodakclick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kodakclick/gifts), [slybrunette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slybrunette/gifts).



> shout out to these goons that put up with reading this stuff first to make me look good on the internet

She accidentally kicked her phone off the coffee table and it landed face down onto hardwood floor, a foot and some change of a drop and she’s rocked a severely cracked screen for two months now.

A tiny ass accident shattered her phone seven ways to Sunday so, _of course_ , a three story trip down onto a conveniently located dumpster and three arrows to the gut still leaves her phone completely operational with no extra damage to speak of.

(figures her luck would fluctuate so horrendously at a time like this, really)

The plastic covering that catches her fall feels cool on her back as she tries to catch her breath again. It’s futile in a lot of ways, it’s not like she can do more than a shallow inhale as much as she tries but she tries nonetheless; call it survival instinct, if it needs to be called something.

Her fingers drag across the mottled screen, pressing numbers she shouldn't know by heart - she can’t find it in herself to be remorseful for that, at least not with where she’s landed herself now.

(get it - _landed_! if she does eat it, the world would be less without her humor, let that be known)

It rings once, twice, maybe a third, although by now she feels the blood pooling by her lower back and her eyelids feel like they’re made of lead. When she manages to keep them open for more than a few seconds, the ringing is replaced with nothing and it’s only then her subconscious allows a little bit of fear to seep in. She has enough left in her to note that imminent death shouldn't really be a thing someone’s allowed to get used to, but...

C’est la vie, yeah? (oui?)

(is that even supposed to be used in a morbid sense? ah, fuck it)

God, she hopes there’s really a god up there to help her out one last time; if the Big Ump upstairs calls it a ball and two strikes, she’s still in the game.

She wants to be in the game, _needs_ to be in it still because there’s still so much and there won’t be enough and, please -

\- please -

\- _please_ , just don’t let her die on a _fucking dumpster_.

(she knows she’s a little shit but c’mon, man)

 

 

A sixteen second call saves her life.

Or so she assumes, the pleasant fall she took may not have done her phone in but the swim it took in a puddle of her blood did. It’s not like it’s not physically there for her to check but she’s managed to borrow a nurse’s phone to check her account details online.

There’s a handful of texts from earlier that month, the one phone call, and a phone upgrade that’s not for another two weeks.

_Just peachy_ , she thinks as she drifts off to another morphine induced sleep.

 

 

There are very few things she truly hates and running is at the top of that list, firmly behind olives.

(olives are plain gross, not a thing will convince her otherwise)

She _hates_ running - always has, always will - except it’s about to get bumped from second place to third because walking has been declared the devil’s sport since she got shot off a rooftop. It’s expected, of course, it’s not like she thought this would be easy. She’s been hurt gravely before but _this_?

This is just torture in its purest form. And she abhors it with a burning passion.

Left, right, left, kind of right, face plant has been her preferred pattern as of late, the only thing saving herself from wrecking the money maker on the daily is the physical therapist that walks slower than molasses slightly behind her.

On this particularly sunny day, instead of the usual hand that grabs her by the elbows to muscle her up, there’s an arm that snakes around her front to grab under her own and another hand adding support by her hip when her legs decide to quit working.

“Mind if I cut in?”

The slight accent washes over her, low and warm right by her ear as she’s pulled back up to standing. She can practically _hear_ the smirk in her voice but when she looks over she’s greeted with a kinder face than she expects.

(if she happens to also lean into the touch, well, she can’t be blamed for that - injured body, tired legs and all)

“If you’re not going to make me walk back and forth anymore, yeah, sure. Be my guest.”

“You’ll still have to walk but I can at least provide a change of scenery.”  
-  
“Sara.”

She grumbles an affirmation back, stretching out as far as she can without aggravating her body any further. Sarah makes her walk still, though she does good on her promise of a different view and takes her out to the beach Sara’s been taunted with from the private clinic she’s been holed up in for the past however long.

Her first day out and the sky is clear, the water is blue, and the breeze is just enough to keep her from sweating - she wants to savor every moment of it.

Still, Sarah is incessant, calls her name again and pokes her side for good measure. Sara moves the hat back to the top of her head from where it’s shielding her face from the sun, cracks her eyes open to glance at where Sarah’s looming over her.

Sara raises an eyebrow when she doesn't continue on, realizing that Sarah never really planned on saying anything more until Sara chose to talk - _if_ she decides to talk.

“It’s alright, you know,” she tries, “I’m still here.”

She nods in response to that, slowly while the gears in her head are turning loud enough that Sara’s sure everyone on the beach knows she’s thinking hard. Eventually, she decides to lean back next to Sara, propped up on an elbow to continue hovering. Sarah plucks the hat off her head and hangs it on a bent knee.

“You have five minutes of sunshine left,” she says as she leans in close, placing a barely-there kiss to her temple, “I promised to not keep you out for too long.”

(again, if she leans into the touch she can hardly be blamed for this instance either)

 

 

Sarah visits her frequently after that, sometimes twice in one day but never with more than a day missing in between. They don’t always go to the beach but they always do something together, be it physical therapy or catered lunch or dip in the pool under the guise of hydrotherapy.

“Seems like you've got a lot of vacation days to waste, Agent Walker,” she says in lieu of asking what she really wants to know. The direct question seems too harsh, too much like Sara doesn't want Sarah around and the simple truth is that she does.

“I’m working on something,” Sarah offers with a small smile.

“No human disaster to babysit?”

She chuckles at that, so low that Sara would have missed it if she wasn’t paying attention. “No more Chuck, not in that capacity,” she clarifies for her. “I get called in when I’m needed.”

“So you’re not needed now?”

(she hates herself for sounding so needy but she likes to think she has a valid excuse. as familiar as she is with near-death experiences, she’s just as acquainted with milking them properly)

“Not more than I’m needed here.”

“Good to know you still think I’m hopeless,” she teases. She bumps her shoulder playfully into Sarah’s from where she’s walking next to her and Sarah’s response is to drape an arm over her shoulders and pull her closer. Another one of those featherlight kisses is dropped on her hairline, though Sarah doesn't move away afterwards.

“Maybe I should keep you around again - save myself the trouble of tracing a phone call in the middle of the night just to find you,” she murmurs right into her ear. It sounds like a promise more than a joke and it’s starting to get difficult for Sara to not be hopeful about it.

 

 

She gets a call early-ish on a Sunday morning, sometime after she wakes up but before they start serving lunch downstairs. The number is blocked but she knows the voice from anywhere, the familiar sound rolling over the vowels of ‘ _good morning, sleepyhead_ ’ through the receiver.

Sara mumbles something unintelligible back at her, failing to keep the sleep out of her voice despite being up for a short while now.

(it’s not a hotel but wake up calls are definitely a thing here - an annoying thing at that)

“You can go back to sleep after this, I was just calling to tell you I had to go out of town. You’ll be alright by yourself for a bit, yeah?”

Another sleepy grumble in response gets her a hearty laugh out of Sarah, who seems to have given up on any chances of having a real conversation by now.

“I have to run but if you need anything they can’t do for you there, then you call, okay. I’ll be back soon as they let me.”

This time she grunts her affirmation back a little too slow, misses the window for goodbye before the line goes dead and she rolls back to settle on the bed again. She follows Sarah’s suggestion and allows herself to drift back to nothingness. In her sleepy haze, she feels something she doesn’t quite want to name but as far as she’s willing to admit, Sara is just sad she’ll have to forgo sunshine and cool breezes for an undetermined length of time.

 

 

It’s exactly thirty-eight days before Sara sees Sarah again – not that she’s been counting.

But there’s a calendar in the nurse area and simple addition and subtraction isn't difficult, if anything she keeps track of it because she needs concrete proof of how ‘a bit’ turned into ‘a while’ and how ‘a while’ turned into over a month.

Sarah doesn't call her again after the initial time, the one to tell Sara she was already out of town and she’d be back soon. Of course the actual definition of soon is flexible in their respective lines of work but she wants a chance to make Sarah feel that much worse about leading her on.

(yeah, yeah, yeah, she’s a little shit)

By the time Sarah shows her face around these parts of paradise again, Sara’s new found hobby is putt-putt. Essentially, it’s the only thing the doctors will let her do because it’s least likely to rip open her abdomen again and create more problems. She grows restless inside and if she can’t take her aggression out on a punching bag, Sara will settle for taking it out on a bucket of balls and the hole with the revolving barrel.

She makes it through about a third of the bucket when a shadow appears to mess with her timing. Another ball is lined up on the tee without much mind to the owner of said shadow, the only acknowledgment she makes is a small click of her tongue.

“I hope this is an approved activity,” she finally says to break to break the silence. “I’d hate to see a barrel of monkeys do you in after such a successful recovery.”

An indignant _hmph_ squeaks out of her at that, breaking her silent treatment because – “you’d know if you were around. I’m basically a better Tiger Woods on these here jungle greens.”

“I deserve that,” she concedes quietly, a rare instance Sarah Walker goes without a fight. Her tone is beseeching, searching for some way to make Sara quit imagining each golf ball as Sarah’s head and not be so stubborn. “We had an incident that took longer than I would have liked to clean up.”

When Sara finally turns to face the other woman, the remorse is so plainly written on her face that Sara would be downright cruel to deny her a chance to at least explain.

It would seem that Sarah’s obligation to Chuck is conditional at best, a resource more than a requirement, now. They only demanded her presence in Paris after an entirely botched undercover solo op he’s sent on by his new handler, one who read a lot of files on Computer Brains but didn't retain a lick because he still decides to send him out with minimal training against everyone’s wishes. The job was supposed to be simple if done right, it’s just the fallout that gets complicated – fixing cracks, dotting I’s, crossing T’s.

Her guilt trip immediately dies off her tongue when she notices a wince as Sarah readjusts her bag over her shoulder. Sara recognizes the old injury immediately, the slight catch in the movement that means she’s used it too much, too long. Figures the idiot would rather work through pain than take care of herself.

(she has to learn her bad habits from _somewhere_ : meet prime example numero uno)

For her thirty-eight days worth of anger, Sara’s forgiveness is nearly instantaneous – given with her fingers gently kneading at the tightened muscles that Sarah harbors. She works at the troublesome spots until they’re tender to the touch, lulling Sarah into a well deserved sleep slumped over the edge of her bed.

They don’t get a chance to discuss how Sarah will repay her broken promises, though Sara has a good feeling she won’t be too far away from now on, one man shit storms and his fuckups be damned.

 

 

Her accent’s slipped before, the slightest of slights when she gets carried away in her ramblings. She always catches it before it gets any worse, wrestling her native tongue into something more neutral, unassuming. As of late, she doesn't take care to wrangle some of the more fluid Australian speech into something passable as American.

(however many years of this charade and she still hasn't gotten the hang of ‘girlfriend’ and still she’s teased about it)

It feels nice – familiar in the best of ways, like slipping on an old sweatshirt during a lazy day or a favorite blanket on a cold night. It feels like Sarah put an older version of herself back on, reverted to someone Sara knows a lot better than the person playing make believe, like coming home after too long away.

She asks her about it one day, when they’re walking up and down the beach the same lazy way they've fallen into. The cool water laps at her feet, it reaches her ankle and she studies the way the sun glints off the tiny waves so intently she nearly misses the casual shrug Sarah offers in response. “No need,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing, “there’s no one else.”

The answer explains everything and nothing at the same time. On the one hand, Sara knows where she stands and on the other, she wonders when Sarah will be gone for a day that turns into a year.

 

Sara stops keeping count after a hundred because Sarah hasn't gone a day without her yet and she decides to finally take Sarah’s word.

The other shoe she’s been waiting for may have already dropped by now, all things considered. There hasn't been another incident save the one day Sarah missed lunch and clipped phone calls littered in between. She doesn't Sara anything else and Sara doesn't ask for anything more and they’re content with the crooked foundation they've managed to build on.

(this shouldn't be so hard but trust given too openly is a liability she’s tried to wean out)

It takes an over indulgent ten months before Sara starts to like the world around her is moving too slow. She finally graduated from putt-putt to nine hole rounds but even that isn't enough to satisfy her itch.

“Can we go back?” she asks after a particularly good swing down the driving range. Sara watches the ball land near one of the markers and bounce away while Sarah is still fixing her stance.

“To Starling?”

“Wherever you’re supposed to be right now,” because _no_ , not Starling, not now. That on its own is already a can of worms, adding Sara back into the mix would only make it worse. Dealing with that mess is being left off on her to-do list for the time being.

“I don’t have anywhere I’m supposed to be.”

Her answer comes out short, less from the exertion of her swing, more from the implication that she answers to someone who can barely keep their own life together.

“But you have somewhere that would make it easier than teleworking from the Caribbean all the time,” Sara counters smoothly. There’s a reason they’re not currently living together even if they spend the better part of every day with one another. Sarah has always preferred to keep Sara out of her personal work if she can manage it and recent incidents have only made her even more diligent of that.

“You _want_ to go to Burbank?”

“I want to be where milk doesn't cost ten bucks a gallon and I can watch Vikings on demand at my leisure.”

(seriously though, there is a reason people usually stay here for a week and then bolt)

“I’ll call tonight,” Sarah eventually says when they’re getting ready to leave.

 

 

Sara takes full advantage of being allowed to do absolutely nothing but binge-watch her way through a decent amount of Netflix and a good chunk of whatever’s available On Demand that she’s missed flitting around across the world. Under no uncertain terms is she allowed to do more than act like a civilian so she tries her best to assimilate to civilian life despite not actually knowing what that entails.

(try going from teenage brat to shadow assassin to mid-twenties plain jane and see how you manage, alright)

She goes as far as learning how to legitimately cook in her spare time, when sitting on her ass gets boring and it’s too nice outside to not do something that’s not physically exerting. Golf is nice, sure but sometimes Sara just wants to enjoy the weather without associating it with wind that will knock her trajectory too far to the right and into the sand trap on the twelfth hole. Besides, too much swinging and her midsection will act up for longer than it’s worth so heading off to the grocery store for ingredients is a welcome alternative. Sara has only bothered to learn about a dozen or so different recipes for mac and cheese, but _whatever_ it still completely counts as cooking if it’s not Easy Mac.

On a particular afternoon where she’s content to let Netflix dictate her life with new episode after new episode, a thin plastic box comes flying in her peripherals, collides into her face when she turns to where it’s coming from.

“I’m starting to think we need to get your eyesight checked, you've been having trouble with dodging things that are flying towards your face lately.”

Absentmindedly, she rubs at her forehead while examining the box that houses all five Halo games in one, “or maybe we could work on stopping the jackass that throws random shit at me when I don’t deserve it.”

“Well where’s the fun in that, kid?”

“ _Fun_ is me watching my shows in peace, not on my guard every second for something to catch with my face,” she huffs. “What is this even for, anyways?”

“You, slugger – gift from the ever so chivalrous, Chuck. He thought a shiny new video game would keep you occupied when you’re on house arrest for the time being.”

“You’re telling me that _Chuck_ , ex-boyfriend, awful excuse for a spy, man-child computer brainiac, _voluntarily_ gave me a new Xbox because he was concerned I was getting bored. How the hell does he even know I’m here, I haven’t seen him since we moved back.”

(lord knows she wouldn't exactly lift a finger to give the guy a gift, let alone one so nice; she's learned to keep her distance from an ex)

Sarah shrugs as she unloads the entirety of Chuck’s odd generosity, stacking various boxes of different sizes on the coffee table. “I told Casey why I was back in town after I made it very clear I had wanted nothing further to do with them. I assume Casey told him about you in some capacity.”

“What exactly is…’some capacity’?”

“Enough that he isn't asking questions. We’ll probably have to tell him about you eventually, though.”

“Maybe wait until he gets me a PS4, too.”

“How about,” Sarah stops in the middle of unboxing the console to raise a reprimanding eyebrow at Sara, shakes her head before she goes back to what she was doing, “you just graciously accept this lovely gift of yours, I will deal with that when time comes, and in the mean time, you can start another one of your culinary masterpieces for dinner while I finish this up, yeah?”

The pillow Sara flings at her head in retaliation as she gets up to go to the kitchen makes an oddly satisfying sound as it connects.

 

 

The truth drops before she manages to influence Chuck to buy her a PlayStation from afar.

(it takes a lot of work to get Casey to drop hints for her but she likes to think she was only a handful away from cashing in)

It has something to do with _major crisis_ and someone (someones? she doesn't have all the details) going rogue in Paris and the government flipping their absolute shit because the person who is supposed to be monitoring their ‘best’ asset is said rogue.

“Really? Your replacement babysitter went apeshit over his wife’s murder and now wants to take down the CIA in revenge. _None_ of you are shitting me?”

“None of us are ‘shitting you,’ no,” Chuck chimes in, even though her question was posed to the general area and she was aiming her gaze to Sarah and Casey and decidedly not Chuck but it figures.

“So,” she starts again, “exactly why am –”

“Can I get a minute with you, Lance? _Alone_.”

Just like that, she gets tugged rather violently away from where they’re all convening at in the basement of the yogurt shop. Castle, they call it, surely some allusion to fortresses and impenetrable and all of that jazz – the government is sentimental like that Sara assumes.

Sarah gets her into a corner that’s out of the way, where she vaguely remembers leading to what they sometimes use as interrogation rooms and the like. She’s been going willingly but she still gets slightly manhandled so to say Sarah’s not too happy about the situation is probably accurate.

“Look,” deep breath in, painful exhale out, “I don’t want to have to bring you into this but I’m running out of options, you do see that. Please, tell me you see that.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” she eases, trying to settle the vein that’s nearly about to explode on Sarah’s forehead back down. Her thumbs run softly across her temple and she tugs her head down to kiss her cheek – reassurance more than anything else. “I’m here for a reason alright, you got me.”

“I know you haven’t been –”

“Don’t worry about me, working on being a pro golfer hasn't left me completely useless.”

She honest to god snorts at that, finally relaxes into Sara a little, “I know about your little detours to the boxing gym conveniently located in between the golf range and home.”

“I—”

“It’s fine, I’m glad you’re getting back on your feet.” Sarah looses a low chuckle before starting again, “I would tell you to take it easy but I realize how hypocritical that sounds with what I've asked you to do.”

“I’m not going to break, Walker.”

“I don’t think I need to remind you how close you were to doing just that not too long ago,” she murmurs close to her ear.

“I’ll try my best to not make it a repeat performance, then, how’s that sound?”

Sara can feel the small nod she gets in response, and now it’s her turn to laugh at Sarah. “Alrighty then,” she says with a light pat on the cheek, “time to go kick some ass, babe.”

(man, she has waited _forever_ to say that again)

 

 

“If this is all you do on your fancy government assignments, I’m starting to understand why it took you so long to get back to me the last time.”

It’s simply the truth, not a dig at Sarah – it’s been nearly a year since that whole thing and Sara’s not trying to grudge up past bygones in the least. Truth is, they’ve been in Paris for two weeks with little to show for their footwork outside of a name and a lukewarm paper trail that Casey and Chuck follow up. Since Boy Genius can flash from words and pictures, their improvised team has the luxury of splitting up to cover more ground efficiently.

At least, however efficiently they were lazily checking small leads each day. Sara felt more like a tourist than like she was working but if she’s not footing the bill and this Shaw guy doesn’t actually have a leg to stand on, she can enjoy it for the time being. If there is ass kicking eventually, so be it – if not, it’s not the end of the world.

“I told you, that was different,” Sarah says, leveling a modest glare back at Sara from over the rim of her sunglasses. “I can assure you I was not spending my afternoons drinking coffee at a café with such riveting company.”

“Hey! I am _excellent_ company, _you_ love my company.”

“So I do,” she says before taking a sip from her cup, “it was bound to happen, it does seem like my luck’s been off lately.”

As Sarah’s luck would have it, she hasn't run out of the stuff entirely because she manages to keep all the liquid in her mouth still when Sara delivers a sharp kick to the shin in retaliation. It might leave a bruise but it definitely doesn't hurt enough for Sarah to complain about it, only turns her smirk into a full fledged grin and keeps on drinking.

They fall back into silence at their small table that sits just outside the storefront. Sara is playing with the condensation on her glass, Sarah is idly stirring black coffee, and both are keeping a lookout for one Pierre Valmont who is supposed to be making a drop off at another café just across the street from them.

Follow, intercept, rinse, repeat – such as spy life goes.

(aka _boooooring_ )

Just when she’s about to tell Sarah as much, Monsieur V pops out of a cab and into her line of view in what is probably the most obnoxious suit anyone could be dressed in. He certainly wasn't kidding around when he told his contact he wouldn't be hard to miss. Perhaps he’s taken the whole ‘best defense is a good offense’ thing a little too far.

“Bogey spotted, ten o’clock.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, we don’t actually talk like that – Tom Cruise does. We are not Tom Cruise.”

“And thank god for that because you are way hotter but seriously, Walker, dude we’re looking for is right over your shoulder and about to make some fancy dance moves if we don’t do something quick.”

A long-suffering sigh escapes from Sarah instead of any words and she downs her coffee while dropping a few bills down on the table without waiting for Sara to follow her. She starts walking across the street, to a point a few yards behind their mark and Sara takes the cue for what it is, heading directly for the other café to cut him off.

Sara should probably be more offended that she’s always the klutz in these situations but when else does she get to intentionally spill hot beverages on unassuming douchebags and not get yelled for it?

(not as much as she would like, that’s for damn sure)

One less painful trip than she’s previously been through, one triple espresso, and a well placed hand to catch her fall and Sarah has the package and her dignity in tact. On the flip side, Sara has less dignity from tripping over a curb and ruining what she hears is an expensive shirt that’s worth more than a year’s rent for her and apologizing profusely in the most southern accent she can scrounge up but also his phone.

(the real joke’s on him though because _she_ doesn't pay rent)

“I vote next time you be the ditzy blonde one – I think that fall I took is triggering some lingering PTSD,” she notes when they meet up again on the next street over.

Sarah scoffs beside her, hands her the leather satchel to leave her own free to sling around Sara and pull her closer, dropping her voice low near her ear, “what exactly makes you think there’s going to be a next time?”

 

 

There is no second time – least not for Sara or Chuck on this particular job. Turns out Pierre was bigger to this whole thing than either of them were made aware and after they managed to get his intel, it was pretty straight forward from there on, out.

In the words of one John Casey: _Leave it to the real spies, kiddos_.

While Sara laughs that one off, Chuck spends the better part of the day sulking about how he’s being left behind _yet again_ when he is _so clearly_ a very useful asset (!!!). In fact, he doesn’t stop pleading with either handler to take him along up until they’re on the tarmac and boarding the cargo plane. He goes as far as to volunteer baggage service for two duffel bags that he probably can’t lift at the same time and yells, “I promise I’ll stay in the car,” as the plane takes off, despite the sounds drowning him out completely.

He looks like he’s in his own world of self-pity when Sara looks over at him, slump in his shoulders and sadness in his eyes. Before Sara can think better of it, she takes some ounce of pity on him and makes up her mind. “Think you can stay in the car long enough to go get some froyo? I know the owner of a place not too far from here.”

She’s half thinking it won’t work but Chuck slouches a little less, quirks up a corner of his mouth and says he has nothing better to do so he might as well get something out of an empty day. The car ride from the airport to the shop is quiet; they’re in the Jeep Sarah got for her because she still doesn't trust anyone else driving her precious three-thousand pound, metal baby.

About twenty minutes later and they’re still in a communal silence as they make their own yogurt cups. There’s still a few minutes short of an hour before the Orange Orange opens, so Sara tells him to just take up residence in one of the other stools behind the counter while he eats.

“Thanks, for the game and everything,” she eventually breaks the silence with once she’s halfway through her cup. “I realized I never got around to thanking you for giving me some stress relief when I couldn't do much.”

Chuck looks stunned for a second, thrown off by either her choice of conversation or that she even spoke to him casually at all, Sara isn't completely sure. It’s not like they've spoken much whenever she’s been in town but Sara can act civilized around company if need be – she was a normal kid for half her life, halfway through college and all.

“Yeah, um, yeah, sure thing? I mean I know how much it sucks to be benched, not that you were voluntarily benched or anything but I mean, you know,” and he gestures towards his general midsection area while stammering off.

“Yeah, I know,” she offers. “I appreciate it.”

“Are you done with the series? I could get you something else, if you want. Perks of the Buy More Nerd Herd include new, full length demos for review purposes.”

At this, Sara is the one that’s thrown off now. She’d never expected him to continue their conversation, let alone offer more. She gives him a genuine smile, resolves to continue their light banter even if it ends up being all they get to. As insufferable as he can be, Chuck seems to truly mean well on most levels – Sara can acknowledge a kind heart in their line of work. She knows there’s reasons for why he can afford to be so naïve, though for now she lets him be.

(in the back of her mind she can see what was so attractive about him to begin with)

By the time their hour passes and the open sign is flipped around, Chuck offers to stay the rest of the day and help out around the shop. “I don’t exactly have the right uniform for the job and even if I did, I wouldn't look nearly as good as Sarah in it,” he admits, “but I promise I can make a pretty mean swirl if you gave me a shot.”

To her surprise, Sara throws him an apron and lets him stay the whole day and no one is killed, maimed, or otherwise gravely harmed by the time they close – customers included.

 

 

When Sarah comes back from…wherever her and Casey end up going, there’s now two sizable TVs sitting next to each other in her living room and two very engrossed people talking to one another via headsets while furiously mashing buttons on game controllers.

Chuck and Sara have taken to sitting on the floor together because sitting on the couch means they’re not completely at eye-level with the screen and sometimes one or the other will have to squint to see a sniper shooting them from left field. It’s just a better vantage overall and they’re both wearing their glasses, it’s not _that_ bad.

(she’s saving humanity from space aliens with a stupid religious agenda, give her a break)

The pair is currently so preoccupied with whatever objective they’re trying to get through that neither notice the way the door slams or how Sarah drags her feet, nor do they even blink when she purposely drops her gear bag right behind them in the kitchen.

It takes about ten whole minutes before Sara gets an inkling of a feeling that something’s amiss in the house that has little to do with the bullet storm raining down on them while they’re trying to get past this valley of death without restarting all the way back at their last autosave. On a whim, Sara glances back to survey the apartment and while she is surprised to find Sarah kind of hovering behind them with a less than amused look, Sara isn't really surprised that she’s been waiting for them to notice her all this time.

With a sheepish, innocent as she can manage smile, she reaches out blindly with her other hand to knock off Chuck’s headset while quickly taking off her own. Chuck’s about to lecture her on leaving him high and dry when all his words die on the tip of his tongue and he feels the full wrath of Sarah’s glare focused onto him.

“Heeey, Sarah! We were just –“

“Out, now – I’ll talk to you later. And you,” she directs at Sara (who is not at all about to try and bolt along with Chuck), “stay – we are talking now.”

Chuck’s up and out the door, leaving all his stuff where he used to be sitting, with a barely audible _sorrycatchyalaterbuddy_ before Sara even gets a chance to guilt him into not leaving her alone.

(that little fucking fake-ivy-league piece of shit)

“I take it you've saved the world but not without some bit of difficulty,” Sara attempts at levity, standing up and making her way to the other side of the couch. This will probably be easier if she doesn't actively look like she’s been doing something wrong – it was an honest mistake, she can’t be blamed for the noise-cancelling effects of surround sound in her ears.

“Something like that.”

(fuck, unreadable tone is never a good sign)

“I can make mac and cheese?”

(food is always a good segue)

“Not really in the mood for that right now.”

(or not, shit)

“Then what –”

“I think we’re done talking now.”

(no talking it is, she sure as hell ain’t about to argue that one)

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”

(yeah, no talking – definitely a brilliant beyond brilliant solution)

 

 

After the whole Shaw situation is dealt with, there is a next time. A few next times in fact, and whether it’s because Sarah thinks she’s far enough removed from her initial injury or that she wants her preoccupied with something more useful than playing video games while Sarah’s away, Sara can’t say for sure.

Either way, she’s too happy she gets to do something useful again to dispute it, whatever reason it may be for.

(jealousy is perfectly fine when it works in her favor in a variety of ways)

Sarah assigns her to a position at the Buy More, not at the Nerd Herd (couldn’t pass for a geek if she tried), but she’s a green shirt with Casey and she’s not as hopeless when selling a computer as she would be trying to fix one. Most of the time though, she just surveys the store to find creative ways to stash various firearms throughout the store; Casey certainly doesn’t mind, in fact, he approves of her latest stash of some 1911s in a thin safe embedded in the back of a washer/dryer set that will never, ever be sold because for some reason, it lacks a rather necessary tumble dry low setting.

She’s currently in the middle of pushing a fridge to a newlywed couple when Sarah rushes into the store and all but yanks her arm off to drag her to the break room, citing some vague emergency and apologizing way too sweetly to her customers. Casey moves to join them but after doing some partner silent communication voodoo with him, only nods back and stays put in the video game section.

“Personal space, much, Walker?”

Her shoulder stings and she does her best to rub away the pain. She feels a little better when Sarah turns back to face her and looks more than a bit guilty for what she did. “I’m sorry,” she breathes out. “Sorry, I just – we have a very heavy hitter that’s pinged and if my sources are correct, he’s going to be going down a very, very long list and I need to cap this before it starts if I can.”

“So are you more upset that this guy is walking around killing people or that you’re about to ask me to do something you really don’t want me doing?”

“It’s not that I’m afraid,” Sarah implores, “they say he’s the best but _they_ only say that because they don’t know any better. And I would do this myself but – I just, I don’t want be the one who makes you do this.”

“Well for starters, no one has ever been able to _make_ me do anything. If I do what you’re asking of me, it’s because I chose to go through with it. We got that straight?”

Sarah smiles then, not as on edge as when she came in. “Loud and clear,” she accepts, running a hand through Sara’s hair and tucking it behind her ear. “I don’t have time to properly brief you but you can read what we have on the way to the airport.”

“So just like old times, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

 

 

Sara chases Raff Gruber across a good deal of Ireland before finally getting the jump on him in London. He _is_ good, she’ll give him that – well trained in hand-to-hand, knows a few styles extremely well and from what Sara can tell, he has steady enough hands to be a good enough shot he claims to be. Pity he didn't have a chance to show that off before she got to him.

Pub brawl is what she decides on, a little bit of creativity on her part is required though it never takes to much to rile a drunken crowd of mostly middle-aged men. No one actually cops a feel to begin with but she’s sure if she let the night drag on a little longer someone would have. At any rate, it causes enough chaos to get Gruber distracted. From there, they make their very fitful way to the back alley and a very literal battle to the death begins.

He manages to throw her into another dumpster – (yes, ironic, she knows) – and that becomes the last time he gets the upper hand on her. Sara has him taken care of quickly and disposed of even quicker, using a local contact Sarah lent her.

She breaks her radio silence once she’s clear to go home, calls Chuck first and tells him to try and keep a secret because she’s on her way back and she wants to surprise Sarah since she takes less time than they anticipated. He promises to keep her updated on Sarah’s whereabouts when she lands back in LA and more importantly, he promises to not say a peep.

Turns out Chuck Bartowski cannot be entrusted with a simple task that involves keeping his mouth shut because he definitely peeps to Sarah that Sara is coming home and when she swings the door wide open and announces, _honey, I’m home!!!_ , Sarah’s reaction is less excited and more good-natured exasperation.

“Computer Brains blabbed it to you as soon as he hung up, didn't he?”

“Afraid so. I’m impressed you managed Gruber so easily but I’m slightly disappointed you didn't see Chuck flipping on you so easily.”

“What can I say,” she shrugs, “I like to give people the benefit of the doubt.”

“Sure you do, sweetheart.”

“I do! Well, I try – most the time.”

A satisfied hum is all Sarah offers before making her way back to the kitchen where something ridiculously good is cooking. Sara kicks her shoes off, runs to toss her bag in their room, and loops back to the other room, spotting the telltale ingredients for spaghetti a la Walker style. After all these years, she still hasn't managed to figure out what makes Sarah’s spaghetti so special but she’s learned to just eat what Sarah Walker puts in front of her without many questions.

“Careful there, Walker,” she teases, coming up from behind to slip her arms around her waist, “someone might think you missed me while I was gone.”

An elbow clips the bruise she got abroad and Sara’s wince is hard to cover up when she’s chest to back with Sarah – it’s fine, nothing serious, although her ribs are still fairly sensitive.

Sarah whips around with so much speed, Sara’s surprised she doesn't give herself whiplash, and not a second later, she’s easing Sara’s shirt up to inspect the injury. The yellow and green discoloration is probably what manages to put her at ease, no array of black and blue to give away any severity that Sara would try to hide.

Her hands trail her abdomen over three distinct scars, each no more than an inch at most. The skin is fully healed, only slightly raised but she’s sure even if they were flat with the rest of her skin, Sarah could still find them. They’re quite important after all.

“The water’s boiling.”

“Hm?”

“Water, spaghetti, might wanna take care of that first. I’ll still be here for you to fuss over but it’ll be a little more difficult if the place catches fire or something.”

“Right,” she says distractedly, moving to turn down the stove and drop the pasta into the pot. She finishes whatever else she can now and then heads to grab a cool gel pack out of the freezer and wraps it in a towel before handing it off to Sara. “Twenty minutes on while you wait for food.”

Sara takes it without arguing, leans back in her seat so the pack can rest without slipping down. She lets the quiet go on for a little longer, maybe ten minutes or so, then reaches out tug at one of Sarah’s hands. “Hey,” she starts, enough to just be heard over the other noises around them, “come here.”

Their fingers tangle together and Sara runs her thumb over rough knuckles that have broken their fair share of jaws. She brushes her lips over the one she remembers being broken once, in another lifetime. Remembers how she felt when Sarah was the one barely breathing and she was the one running around equal parts hopeless and helpless.

(she never said anything then, too young and too afraid to know much better)

"I’m still here.”

“Yes,” she sighs, squeezes her hand and bends down to drop a kiss on the top of her head before going back to cooking.

 

 

They surprise her during one of their weekly dinners, at a sushi restaurant Morgan suggested that isn't half bad.

There’s a small cake with sparklers and the entire wait staff for the night singing happy birthday to her while she tries to not look completely murderous at her friends. Sara smiles politely and blows out the candles, thanks everyone for the sentiment that is at least three months off and is happening for no reason she can conjure up.

“Anyone want to tell me what’s going on,” she gets through gritted teeth. “ _Now_?”

“Well, you see it started with Ch—”

“ _Alll_ right, buddy! Lemme try explaining in a way that won’t get me killed, okay?” Chuck looks to Sara for approval then, the only thing he gets is a skeptical eyebrow. “Okiedokie, then, so I can see where you’re confused, the birthday song and the birthday cake can be really misleading but this is our way of saying welcome to Team Bartowski!”

“Team Bartowski?”

“Or Team Intersect – the name is negotiable, we can take a poll later.”

“Still don’t see the point, Chuck.”

“What numb-nuts is trying to say is that you’re cleared as a… _consultant_ of sorts, for the future,” Casey explains.

“A consultant?”

“We need your skills, we call you, you don’t get arrested – all pretty cut and dry, Lance.”

"And this just happened?”

“Yeah! Well, mostly because taking out a super assassin kind of helped your case. Oh! And Sarah kind of made a really big pitch to Beckman and, y’know.” Chuck’s hands do something of a flourish around the cake to help emphasize his point better.

“Sarah did, did she,” she asks in the general direction of everyone else but turns to pin a questioning gaze at the woman in question.

Sarah shrugs, her face the epitome of feigned innocence. “All I said was you could be a useful tool to keep our asset preoccupied while me and Casey do the real spy work. If you distract him long enough saving humanity in a TV screen, we might be able to actually get something done for once.”

Resentful _hey_ 's are yelled from all around the table – Chuck and Sara for obvious reasons, while she figures Morgan takes offense that it was implied that she’s the one that would occupy his best friend’s time and not him.

Across the table, Casey does his worst impression of all three of them and tells to shut up and eat their cake so he can finally go home and tend to his bonsai garden. He grumbles something else about having to put up with a bunch of idiots as he shoves a spoonful of cake in his mouth and Chuck and Morgan share a perplexed face with Sara.

On her right, Sarah props an arm over the back of Sara’s chair, leans in close to steal the bite she has ready and winks at her while she pulls away, smug as hell.

Sara certainly didn't sign up for any of this but she guesses no one really has a choice for what they wind up calling home – it kind of just happens as you go.


End file.
